beneath the stars and all the bars
by glossier
Summary: In which hearts, bones, and silences are broken. — Zuko/Katara


**_a/n: **mixed feelings. trying to tackle something i never have. warning! this is graphic. contains torture.

_AU prompt:_ a reversed world / oppressed benders

summary: In which hearts, bones, and silences are broken. Zutara.

* * *

**beneath the stars and all the bars**

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**.**

**.**

This is where it starts.

You wake up with a throbbing in the core of your head.

For awhile you question whether or not your eyes are even open—drowning in complete blackness. Cold, silent, desolate blackness. Your head is pounding, heart drumming, and stomach curdling and all you can remember are those memories of your loving mother with those turtle-ducklings.

Everything aches. God, does it ache.

.

.

And this is how it goes:

they strap you down onto a metal bed in a blaring white room. It's so bright, _too_ bright, but they hook your eyes open to blind you. It gets worse when you strain against the restraints that chafe against your wrists and ankles. You learn this during your first attempt to escape and they make one small incision at your wrist and peel up your arm. (and you scream and scream and scream at them to stop—you will do whatever they please; just _stop_ the burning stop stop stop)

And they do for a bit, the stench of your exposed flesh intoxicating your lungs with every breath.

Someone asks you questions, thousands of them, but you cannot answer because it's simple: you do not _know_ the answer.

The torture that follows is endless.

.

.

You spend the beginning of your stay growling profanities into the nothingness of your cell, the place where all you see is black and all you feel is cold and all you smell is blood. (and the funny part is is that there is no telling if that tangy, metallic whiff is of your own. for all you know, you could be surrounded by rotting bodies.)

What's funnier is that you prefer this dark chamber over the experimental room. There is no interrogation here. No torture. No peeling or cutting or grinding, pulling, stabbing. You remember the needles of multiple syringes being injected into your veins that make your head run haywire—and you begin to relive all your horrendous memories whilst dreaming of brutal, unreal happenings that replace everything good, everything you try to keep locked away in the crevices of your mind. You remember your father scarring your youthful face, wrinkling your smooth complexion and he selling you out for being a bender to authorities to save himself as well as your sister from being taken, _stolen_ from your home—then the implanted visions take control and suddenly you're slaughtering your own mother, bending against your little sister, and lastly, staring up at the expanse of a gold red sky as your ruptured, broken, unhonorable body destroys itself under your source of power setting away along the horizon.

And the funniest part?

You wish you never wake up every time that you do.

But they keep you alive. They will _always_ keep you alive.

They always make sure you never bleed too much. That you're bathed, cleanly shaven. That you're bandaged, healed to an extent. That you're nourished (enough. they have injections for this, typically given after knocking you out so you can't fight it) That you're always breathing, so they can continue on with their experimental torture.

(when they catch you slamming your head against the cell wall your hands and feet are shackled to, you're given an extended amount of time in the white room where you're forced to inhale toxins until your mouth is on fire and you choke on your own blood)

.

.

You don't know when she's thrown in there with you, but you're half-scared, half-relieved when you hear someone crying somewhere toward your left. You've been left alone for so long that you've forgotten what it's like to be near someone that could understand. Someone else with a fiery, innocent heart and cursed with an elemental power surging through their body and controlled with only the curl of their fingers. Someone else that's different, that was _born_ different.

She continues to sob and you begin to wonder of her age, her element, the life she had been stripped of.

Soon you will bask in her screams, petrifying and resonant, even when she is placed in another room where she is tied down and blinded.

She will plead for them to stop, but they won't. They never will.

.

.

_You are all monsters_, they tell you in all their glorious irony when fire erupts from a hand you had managed to free. They numb it down with the use of a colorless liquid that they shove into the tip of your forefinger less than a second later.

(they threaten to cut the entire limb off altogether, but they won't. you can bet on it)

.

.

You wonder how your sister would handle this.

(the bitch that your father saved, protected, loved)

She would be pinned against the smooth metal after rounds and rounds of carving skin when they begin their questioning. And her breath would hitch, her shoulders would shake, and a smile would bloom along her bloodied, torn face. Her giggles would begin quietly, but would slowly rise in volume. Her hysterical cackles would echo along the experimental room and reverberate toward the cellar, and her shaking, mirthful body would force the incisions they'd sewn to reopen, seams ripping and blood splurging. She would laugh and laugh and laugh because she is truly unbreakable. She is strong, insane, driven.

She would scare them shitless.

(and they would probably put her down before she finds a single moment to kill them all)

But Azula's not here, even when she should be. She is the epitome of the heinous benders that exist and she is back at home, free to live. Free to kill.

Instead, it is _you_ here, with a girl that is _not_ your sister (your sister would never cry, scream, beg), being imprisoned like murderous animals.

.

.

The first time she had cried in the cellar had been the last.

It's amusing in the darkest way, how much the girl changes when losing toes and skin and nails after being unable to answer one simple question.

_Where did you get your power_?

She only breathes, drumming the remainder of her fingers along the stone wall where her hands are cuffed behind her. You wonder how many she has left.

(you have eight)

You don't ask, though. You don't talk to her at all, actually. Wasting your breath doesn't seem like a smart idea, especially since they punish you for everything. You try your hardest to keep away from the other room.

.

.

There are times you dream of slashing your own throat, on the brink of death, of peace, and when you wake, you can only wish it had been real.

.

.

She is the one to break the silence first.

When nothing happens, she deems it safe to converse, giving no shits whether you're awake or not. All you both can see is black, anyway. You forget what seeing is even like.

(you forget too many things)

"The last thing I remember is lying down in that bed of snow, sharing jokes with my idiot brother," her voice sounds strangled. "The sky was beautiful that day."

Your shoulder twitches, and there is something that lodges in your throat because she sounds so angelic and passionate and encouraging and you want her to continue. "I can't remember the last time I saw the sky," you lie. You saw it last night in one of your morbid delusions. A little desperately, you add, "Could you describe it?"

She smiles a little, but you can't see it. "That evening it was a golden red. I don't even think I had gotten to watch the sun set all the way..." she begins, getting lost in thought for a moment. With a sigh, she continues, "But usually, it's a brilliant, saturated blue." You begin to doze off into the sound of her voice, sweet and kind—

"...sometimes with streaks of orange and clouds of pink. And the sun is warm, consuming…"

—and for the first time, you do not dream of anything excruciating or painful.

.

.

You don't care about the fire in your lungs and the crust of blood that had formed beneath your eyes. The last things on your mind are aches and amputations and the chains that bind you as you allow yourself to be engulfed by the nostalgia this girl effortlessly brings.

.

.

Her name is Katara, she tells you. She is a seventeen year old waterbender from the Southern Water Tribe. She has an older brother and a father, whom she loves deeply. She likes reading, animals, and taking control. You learn that she hates spicy food with a passion, and this makes you smirk because it's the one thing that you actually really like about your nation—their famous tongue-tingling entreés.

She talks to you a lot, filling the void of silence with her words, weaving worlds into that cave-like prison of yours. You don't reply a lot of the time, but she doesn't mind, continuing to cluster the cell with memories and stories and songs that transform the chamber into areas of sweet, sweet serenity. Sometimes gardens full of weeds and roses and ivy, or a magnificent castle she had read about hidden amongst the clouds for airbenders, or simple settings: a flea market where a vendor had tried to bargain all her money from her, or a forest where she had encountered her first bear-coon.

You learn about her friends, most of them benders, too. You feel a pang of resent, jealousy of their freedom. _Lucky bastards_, you think. One of them is named Aang. He's air, she informs you. Another is earth, Toph. She's blind and small and the toughest of them all. And then Sokka, the jokester, the brother, _the moron_—Katara laughs so genuinely that it becomes your favorite sound—the one that breaks the ice and makes them all laugh, especially when she and Toph get on each other's nerves. She weaves you through stories of hunting that involve her brother getting trapped in rocks Toph had bent, and flying through the air on a bison with the boy who claimed to have fallen in love with her. You learn of her mother, who had been taken from her at an early age, and you remember your own but you don't say a thing.

You continue to listen though, immersing in her voice and her sad laugh and her life. You're drawn to her more than you'd like to be.

So when she returns from a session in the alternate room and she stops talking, failing to utter a single word, sigh, groan, and the drumming of her fingers (maybe she has none left) are unheard, you feel your heart drop in realization: you've become attached.

(and it is _terrifying_ how submerged you are in this girl)

.

.

Everything is quiet and it's maddening and isolating and you are desperate to hear her.

And you are forced to think a terrible, terrible thought—that she may, possibly, only be a figment of your hallucinations.

(and that horrifies you even more)

.

.

"Katara?"

Nothing.

You give it a shot, anyway.

You tell her your name, your element. It is your turn to reveal your fair share of stories, even if there is no telling whether or not she is awake. You mention your uncle first. You talk about Agni-Ki's and describe dueling your own father. You scare her with stories of your manipulating, conniving baby sister harboring a hatred for your mother and you. You know your words are not as eloquent as hers, nor adventurous, because growing up you were spoiled. Everything was given to you and you had never been allowed to travel. Father had made you ignorant to the wonders of the real world until Katara had painted pictures and images and visions for you. You're hesitant to admit that you never really had any friends, and that you were forced to associate with your sister's. You mention a vague memory of three girls and a fountain and an apple on fire and to your surprise, exhibits a laugh from the other side of the cellar.

She learns bits and pieces of you: that you were sixteen when you were first placed here (once upon a time ago), that you can bend lightning, that you have a scar on your left eye, and that green tea is your favorite because it reminds you of the best man you know, one with a gentle smile and greying hair.

They're little things, but they are enough.

.

.

"Zuko?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever think we'll make it out of here?"

And you don't reply. You see no reason to, especially when you know your answer will break her heart when all you want is to hear her laugh.

The silence is enough to do the job, though.

.

.

She hums a tune that carries through the space you are in and settles into the confines of your head. You recognize the song, sometimes, but you cannot quite recall from where.

During your time in the experimental room, as they rip the layers of your skin open piece by piece and flesh by flesh, all you think of is that song she hums as you bite down on your tongue.

.

.

They burn your feet one session and you seethe under the blistering touch as your scorching flesh invades your nostrils once again. You hiss out in pain and it becomes unbearable, craving for them to cut them off to just stop the immensity of the flames. How _dare_ they harm you with your own element. You can already imagine your father's mocking tone and dissatisfied glare. Shameful. Embarrassing.

(amusing for _them_, the cynical, twisted people they are)

You snarl angrily when you're back in your cell, and for the first time since the beginning, you move relentlessly in attempt to break free of these shackles. You scream marathons of obscenity before settling with three words you repeat over and over after a long bite of the tongue.

"Fucking kill me. Fucking kill me. Fucking _kill me_. FUCKING _KILL_ ME."

You want to strangle yourself. To crack your head. To stop suffering.

And to hell with fucking honor.

You throw your head back as hard as you can, hearing a crack that ruptures a deafening scream from your left, feeling much, much more than a trickle of blood along your hairline. Maybe you can kill yourself before they can get to you with that goddamned injection.

But then she intervenes—

"_Stop it stop it stop it stop it,_" Katara interjects ferociously, swaying her head side to side. "_Please, stop_."

—and she beats the both of you.

.

.

You lose a hand.

(they actually _did_ it)

It's not that much of a loss, anyway. At least now you only wear three shackles. A tad bit more free. But not really.

(not at all)

Maybe now you can try and reach Katara. Human touch has become foreign to you and you crave it—the warmth, the intimacy.

(and sometimes you need reassurance that she is actually _real_)

You try but your attempt is fruitless. She notices your grunting as you stretch toward your left. "What're you doing?"

"I was hoping I could feel you," and you gulp back a sliver of sadness, resigning your pitiful shudder of optimism. You remember why you were never the positive type to begin with.

.

.

The false memories they inject into her bloodstream fucks her up much more than they did you. You see it immediately—the change, that is, paralleling an evil so maniacal, conniving, cold-blooded. It reminds you of your sister.

"And then I stabbed her with Dad's spear," Katara singsongs. Her tone is so uplifting that you're aware that she probably has a crescent moon grin painting the bottom half of her face. "She deserved it for leaving us. Sokka kept telling me to stop, but how could I? I thought she was dead. We all thought she was dead. I just made it true."

She giggles and it sends a shiver down your spine.

"If only Sokka and Dad hadn't gotten in the way. What a shame," another stifle of lonesome laughter. "Oh, well."

You wonder how long it'll last.

.

.

"I've bent blood once," Katara tells you as if it's a confession, tone full of guilt.

"I didn't even know that was possible." It's something you've never heard before and you aren't sure if you should believe her. You play along, anyway, "I wish I could see it."

This girl continues to surprise you. Sleepily, she murmurs, "I wish I could see you."

Drained, she slowly drifts into the seas of her dreams, where he prays it is better for her.

.

.

This is where it ends:

with you on the metal bed in the white room, your eyes bleeding crimson where they had once been amber. Too much sentiment is crammed in the narrow of your throat, full of compromise and hope that should have been abandoned as soon as your first treatment.

To your surprise, they don't touch you, nor do they hook the lids of your eyes to force them open. And you hear words you never would have imagined, making you question whether you are in another period of hallucination.

"You're free," they say.

You're in so much shock and disbelief that your eyes moisten instantly and you're at a loss of words. You manage a stuttering _how?_ and they inform you, emotionless:

"Your uncle offered an exchange too rich to refuse."

You wonder if he had given copper pieces or gold or all the yuan he earned during the time you've been captured. Maybe information of some sort. Maybe he'd brought in another bender, someone notably more worthy (your father, your sister, you wish, but you know your father would have Uncle hanged if the idea was ever voiced. you can still dream, though.)

You don't question it. Whatever Uncle had offered must be of great value. You don't even have the gut to argue—there's no need to. You're _free_.

You're free.

"Tomorrow you will wake," they continue. "With every memory made in this sanction erased."

And it hits you, like a punch to the gut, a final blow. Anxiety-driven, you mutter, "And Katara?"

You feel your heart drop cold, air lodged in your throat. "The waterbender takes no part in the transaction."

.

.

_I'll tell you everything_, you lie between the teeth they've been ogling for some time now. _Just let her go._

_Keep me. _

_Keep me. _

_Keep me._

.

.

Your eyelids flutter open to black and the tears that instantly spring to your eyes are of relief. To reassure you of your victory (her freedom, her happiness, her life), you break the silence.

"Katara?"

"Zuko?" the older, raspy voice almost rung foreign to your ears, feigning distant memories they had been taken from you, forced by you, startling you in horrifying cognizance. "Why are you still here?"

(because the thought of Uncle offering himself as your replacement would have never, ever crossed your mind)

.

.

It seems like a blink, a blank slate of time that is too, too surreal when she opens her orbs to a reddening sunset-sky that somehow, some way, makes her think of a missing memory—a boy, maybe. A vision. A dream.

Something that had been so close, yet at the same time much too far to grasp in memory.

She turns her head, her cheek cold against the snow to see her brother's relaxed profile several inches away from her. After light breaths, Sokka cuts in, breaking a silence too strangely familiar.

"Let's get back home. Dad's probably waiting," he jolts upward, glancing back at her.

"Yeah," she says, biting back a thought of a fleeting, boyish voice she thinks she could remember if she tried hard enough.

She sees no reason to, as she watches what's left of the gleaming sun fall below the horizon.

**.**

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**.**

**fin.**


End file.
